She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.

There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.

Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.

She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.

Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.

She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.